The day was drawing to a close. It was a long way to the claim, and Blount was by no means sure that he could find his way back or even pick up his own tracks.
“I think,” he replied, “that I can’t do better than accept your offer, for which I feel most grateful.”
“There is no real obligation, believe me,” said Mr. Bruce.
“But where is your horse?” said Blount, looking at the stranger’s serviceable leggings.
“Not far, you may be sure, and in safe keeping; my gillie is pretty handy.” Putting two fingers to his mouth, he gave the drover’s whistle, with such volume and shrillness that it might have been heard at a considerable distance. After a short interval, a high wailing sort of cry (the Australian aboriginal call) came floating through the forest, and a black boy galloped up, riding one horse, and leading another of such superior shape and action that Blount thought it criminal to run the risk of injuring him in such rough country.
The black boy led the horse to his master, but did not offer to dismount, or hold the stirrup, as an English groom would have done. Nor did such attention appear necessary, as Mr. Bruce mounted with alacrity, and motioning the boy to ride ahead followed at a brisk trot through the forest and along the rocky cattle tracks, which, though occasionally running in different directions, converged, and appeared to lead almost due south. All the while, the son of the forest sitting loose-reined and carelessly on his horse, never deviated apparently from his course, or was in doubt for a moment.
In less than two hours, when the light was becoming uncertain, and the chill evening air of these Australian highlands apparent, a chorus of baying dogs of all ages, sizes and descriptions announced the vicinity of the homestead. At the same time, the winding course of a full fed mountain stream was revealed.
On a promontory which seemed to have dissociated itself from the forest glades, and been arrested just above the broad river meadow, stood a roomy bungalow protected by wide verandahs from sun and storm.
“This is Marondah!” said Mr. Bruce, not without a certain air of dignity—“allow me to welcome you to my home.” A black girl came running up at the moment, who showed her enviably white and regular teeth in a smile of greeting, as in a matter-of-fact way she unstrapped the guest’s valise, and led off his horse.
“You put ’em yarraman longa stable,” commanded the squatter—for such he was. “Your horse will be all right. Polly is as good a stable hand as Paddy—a turn better, I sometimes think. She’s a clever ‘gin’ all round. Ah! I see Mrs. Bruce.”